


Springtime Of My Loving

by Meghadoota



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, Bigamy, Cousin Incest, F/M, Loss of Child, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 14:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14571183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meghadoota/pseuds/Meghadoota
Summary: She never wanted this - leaving Rickon alone in the North, going South to marry Jon who is already married to the Dragon Queen. But when she begins to slowly find love in her husband, Sansa thinks she can be content, if not happy, until the day Jon comes home with a bastard babe.





	Springtime Of My Loving

It is cold, oh _so_ cold that she feels like the chill is seeping into her very bones, digging deeper and deeper and deeper.

Rickon shivers, even in his sleep; and she drags some more furs over him, tucking them around him tightly. Rickon frowns, a little crease between his closed eyes. Shaggydog, who is lying at her feet, lifts his huge head and stares at her, green eyes gleaming like two big emeralds.

Sansa pats the direwolf’s head, and then threads her fingers through Rickon’s red hair, curls long and unruly. He won’t let anyone but her cut his hair.

She keeps stroking his hair until Rickon’s frown eases away. He looks so peaceful now, all quiet and innocent, nothing like how he usually is – loud and wild and boisterous, his mood leaping from joy to fury swiftly, or annoyed and angry and sniffling and upset, like he’s been these past few days.

As he sleeps now, Sansa watches him quietly. The chubby cheeks he’d had at three have gone now, his face a little longer. But he looks so young, like the little boy of eight he really is – to be loved and cherished and protected and kept safe.

_My little King,_ she thinks, her heart clenching with sorrow and loss and guilt as she muses on how this is the last night she shall be able to call her brother her King.

There’s a knock on the door. Lady Brienne, part of Rickon’s Kingsguard – _there won’t be a kingsguard from tomorrow,_ Sansa remembers suddenly – Lady Brienne announces that the Lord Protector is at the door. Sansa had known it is Jon, of course, or Shaggydog would have stood up, huge and imposing, ready to growl at the intruder.

“Sansa,” Jon’s greeting is a gentle whisper.

He nods at her and then looks away, his gaze settling on Rickon’s sleeping figure. He towers over her as he comes over to where she’s seated. The lights from the torches cast dancing shadows over his face, throwing the scars on his face into sharp relief – they look silver one moment and then golden another, as the lit torches flicker in the freezing wind that sneaks in through the little gap between the closed windows. _I never asked him how he got those scars,_ she thinks absently.

“I had asked Walder to have that fixed. I will see that it is done tomorrow.” Jon’s voice is soft as he frowns at the cold air seeping in through the gap. In the grey and white colours that he has donned – _tonight is the last time he’s wearing our colours,_ she remembers – Jon looks almost apologetic, as if it is his fault that the windows weren’t fixed, as if it is his fault that Rickon is shivering, as if _everything_ is his fault.

“I had hoped to speak to Rickon,” Jon whispers, careful not to wake up their sleeping King. “I had hoped he would…” Jon trails off, his lips drawn into a thin line, downcast.

“He isn’t mad at you, Jon, not really,” she assures him. “Or Shaggydog would’ve been barring his teeth at you. Rickon is just sad. He doesn’t want you to go away.”

“Do you think _I_ want to go away, Sansa?” He asks her quietly. It is only now that she notices the faint quivering of his voice – oh so faint, but it’s there alright. “This, Winterfell—it’s _home!_ To go away, to marry my _aunt—_ ” Jon stops abruptly.

_You can speak to me,_ she wants to tell him, _you can unburden your heart and mind to me, Jon. You may not be Father’s son, but we are still family. You are still a wolf, and we are still a pack – Rickon, you, me, and Bran, if he is still alive beyond the Wall._

But the words die in her throat. Jon and she – they have never really been close, even after they’d been reunited. Oh, they speak of their missing and dead siblings, they speak of Father, they speak of Rickon and the North and the Riverlands and their allies and the stores in the granaries and the advance of the Others. But they’ve never _spoken_ to each other, really.

Jon bends down to kiss Rickon’s brow, his lips gently resting on their brother’s forehead for a long moment. Jon loves Rickon with all his heart – or whatever’s left of it since the Red Priestess resurrected him from the dead.

“Good night, Sansa,” Jon says quietly.

“Good night, Jon,” she whispers, her gaze never leaving him until he walks out of the chambers, closing the large doors behind him.

It takes her a few minutes to make up her mind, and then she is off, bundled up to face the cold outside, a hood pulled over her head, leaving Lady Brienne and Shaggydog in charge of protecting Rickon, telling the guards at the Great Hall that she doesn’t need an escort because Ghost, padded paws soundless on the stone floor of the castle, walks by her side, huge and tall.

Outside, the snowflakes fall, white and fast and heavy; her boots sink into the deep bed of snow that covers everything in sight. The men rake it off the paths in the mornings, but by nightfall, their efforts are thoroughly defeated by the incessant snowfall… not that there’s much of a difference now between the days and nights anyway. The little sunshine that falls weakly to the grounds is the last they will see for many months to come, Sansa knows that. She has never seen a winter like this – so powerful and ravaging and seemingly everlasting. _But I am prepared for it. I am a Stark. Rickon, Jon and I will see it through._

Her hands feel cold despite the two pairs of gloves she has pulled on, her feet turning number and number as she walks. But she knows that respite is near. There are only two places Jon seeks refuge in – the crypts and the godswood. Tonight, she knows where he shall be.

The moon lights up the path, as do the hundreds of stars shimmering in the dark sky.

The trees shield her from the snowfall now, even though they have shed most of their leaves, standing guard tall and fierce above her – the oaks and the ironwoods and the sentinels. She wonders how long the trees have stood there, watching over generations of Starks praying at the weirwood, Bran climbing onto the oaks, Mother taking Rickon to the hot pools once, Father polishing Ice, Arya watching Robb and Jon play with their wooden swords. _Did they stand here during the Long Night too,_ she wonders to herself, almost foolishly looking to the tall trees for wisdom, for guidance.

_We have nobody to help us, nobody to advise us, nobody to look up to,_ she thinks. It is only Jon and Rickon and her – grown up now, but still children playing at wars and ruling. _What would you do, Father, if you were in Jon’s place? What would you advise Father to do, Mother?_ Her silent questions go unanswered, of course.

The air turns warmer now that she is in the godswood, Ghost runs off somewhere, as if he knows she wants to speak to Jon alone. She knows her cousin is near. Or the direwolf would never have left her side.

The scent of moss and the steam from the hot pools and mud and snow and fallen leaves – the air is heavy with it. She breathes it all in deeply when she spots Jon sitting at the foot of the heart tree.

He looks like a statue, unmoving, the grey in his clothes dark against the white bark of the heart tree, his hair even darker, the red leaves on the lowest branch making it seem like he’s wearing a blood red crown from where she’s standing.

“Speak to me,” she tells him, joining him at the foot of the weirwood. He takes off his cape, spreading it on the ground for her to sit on. She finds herself smiling softly at the gesture, even though she knows he doesn’t feel the cold much. The Red Priestess and her spell that brought him back to life has ensured that he isn’t as vulnerable to the cold as most people are.

“I do not know what to say,” he whispers, not meeting her eyes.

She waits, saying nothing. It seems the right thing to do.

“I didn’t want to do this, Sansa,” he says finally, his voice is heavy with guilt, with a sort of desperation even. He meets her eyes now, grey eyes so bright in the moonlight, a slight sheen of moisture in them making them shine even brighter. “You must believe me, Sansa. I never wanted this for Rickon. The North, the Riverlands—he is King. It is his right—”

“I believe you,” she interrupts him. She understands the reason for the desperation now – because he wants her to believe him, to absolve him of the injustice he thinks he has committed to.

“You did no wrong,” she tells him firmly. For a mad moment, she wants to take him in her arms, let him rest his head on her shoulder, lay down his burdens, even if for a little while, be the boy he once was. But she doesn’t. She only takes his hand in hers, wishing they weren’t both wearing gloves.

“You did everything you could for Rickon,” she tells him. “For the North. You had the crown, the northmen declared you the King in the North, but you gave it all up the very day you found Rickon. You need not have done that. Robb had legitimised you, but you still gave it up for our brother—”

“And I am making him give it away now, the crown, the North and the Riverlands, our hard-fought independence… to the queen whose father murdered our grandfather, our uncle—my _own_ grandfather—” Jon breaks off again. Even now, she can see the horror of it in his eyes – that the Mad King was his grandfather, that Rhaegar and Aunt Lyanna bled the realm and its people, leaving hundreds dead and broken. She wonders just how deep the truth of his birth has wounded him. She knows he is irreversibly hurt, that he despises the events that led to his birth, the War, the bloodshed. He detests the mere mention of his dragon blood. She wonders whether he will ever realise that he was, is, and will always be a wolf despite it all.

“We need Queen Daenerys’ dragons,” she tells him, her hand reaching out to him, cupping his bearded cheek. He leans into her faintly, almost like Ghost and Shaggydog do when she strokes their furry head. “They are our only hope. If she wants the North and the Riverlands in return, then so be it.”

_She wants your hand in marriage as part of the deal,_ goes unsaid. But it hangs dark and heavy between them. After all, that is why Rickon is so furious and upset, declaring that he will not let the dragon queen take Jon away from him, that he will fight her and Shaggydog will fight her dragons, that he will even give up the crown and the throne if it means Jon won’t leave him. She remembers the tears that slid down Rickon’s cheeks as he said that, screaming angrily and then tearfully begging Jon not to leave him like Father, Mother, Bran and Osha did.

The despair in his eyes tells her that Jon remembers it too.

“All that matters is that Rickon is safe. You know what the Queen does to people who do not bow to her,” Sansa reminds him, shuddering as she thinks of the reports of Kings Landing burning for days, the fields of fire in the Reach. “I want Rickon alive. I want him to grow old and grey, to have his own children filling the halls of the Winterfell. Father and Mother would have wanted that too. Rickon’s life is far more precious than a crown and a kingly title. You agreeing to the Queen—you are keeping Rickon safe. That is what matters, Jon.”

“What of the North?” Jon asks her. “What of our men and women? We fought for the North, Sansa. They all fought for our— _their_ freedom! Robb’s death, Catelyn, all the northmen and riverlanders who died at the Twin Towers—everyone who died fighting the Boltons—is it all to be in vain? I am giving it all up on platter for a crown I do not even want.”

“The lords and ladies aren’t wrong,” she admits, thinking of the loud arguments that ensued when the Dragon Queen’s proposal arrived. “It is tough to give up freedom once you have tasted it, isn’t it? But they all know that the war against the Others is the most important thing now – the battle for our lives. Or there will be no one left to rule over. Our lords know that. That is why they agreed, however reluctantly. They all know you didn’t do this out of selfishness. They know you do not want any sort of crown. You gave up the crown you had, Jon. They know the kind of man you are. They may be miffed now, but they know that this… it is all for the greater good of our people. What use is freedom when nobody in the North will be alive to enjoy it?”

“Freedom,” says Jon softly, as if he is musing on her words. “Is that why you refused to consider Ser Harry Hardyng’s proposal? Lord Mallister’s too?”

Sansa is a little surprised. When she had refused the proposals, Jon had only nodded, saying nothing, not forcing her into a marriage for the sake of an alliance with the Vale or strengthening ties with the riverlords who swore allegiance to Rickon.

“Yes,” she admits. “I want to stay here, Jon. Home, with Rickon and you—” she stops abruptly. Come tomorrow, Winterfell won’t be Jon’s home anymore, not really. If they defeat the Others, Jon will go off to the South, to rule the Seven Kingdoms from the Iron Throne, Queen Daenerys by his side.

“I hope you shall find your happiness someday, Sansa,” Jon tells her softly. “Maybe a good man of the North, who will not make you leave Winterfell. Maybe _you_ can fill the halls with your children.”

Sansa smiles, an empty smile because she has given up those dreams and hopes now. But she doesn’t have the heart to tell that to Jon now.

“If the gods will it,” she says.

Jon smiles, and they say nothing for a long, long while, sitting in a comfortable silence, the heart tree watching over them, eyes weeping red sap in the moonlight.

“Remember, Jon,” she tells him on a sudden whim, taking both his hands in both of hers. “No matter who truly fathered you, you are still a son of Eddard Stark. You are still our blood – Rickon’s and mine. And Winterfell shall always have a place for you, it shall always be your home. We are a pack, Jon, the three of us, no matter how far we are from each other. Remember that, Jon.”

Jon smiles, a genuine smile, grey eyes even brighter now as unshed tears pool in them. Jon leans forward and kisses her cheek – a gesture so warm and welcoming. His lips rest on her skin for a long, long moment, until he pulls back, and they walk back to the castle, her arm in his.

Queen Daenerys arrives the next day.

Days later, the two of them stand in the in the makeshift sept: the Dragon Queen the most beautiful woman Sansa has ever seen, dressed in Targaryen black and red like Jon is, the three-headed dragon sewn large and fierce on her maiden cloak as well as on the cloak Jon is to replace it with, Jon’s dark hair such a contrast to the Queen’s flowing silver locks, with nobody seeming capable of taking their gazes off the awe-inspiring couple.

Just before they say their vows, Jon’s gaze turns away from the Queen’s violet ones and to Sansa, grey eyes meeting her blue ones in a mute appeal for support, for a belonging that he doesn’t seem to find in the Targaryen colours he is wearing, for a sense of family and acceptance and familiarity.

Sansa smiles with all the encouragement she can muster, Rickon’s hand clutched tightly in hers, Shaggydog standing beside them, green eyes staring fiercely into Ghost’s red ones as the white direwolf stands by Jon’s side, a silent sign that Jon Targaryen is still a wolf, even as the three large dragons circle above them all in the skies, black and green and creamy white.

That is the end of it, Sansa thinks.

It is on a warm spring morning four years later, that she realises it was only the beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> The title's from Led Zeppelin's 'The Rain Song', mostly because I couldn't come up with a suitable title, and I was listening to the song, and it seemed to somehow fit.
> 
> I should've tagged Daenerys in the characters as well as Jon/Daenerys in the pairing. But I've seen J/D shippers getting rather upset that it's listed as a pairing when they aren't a primary pair (not that I blame them. I've clicked on so many Ned/Cat fics only to see there's hardly anything about them in the story)  
> Anyway, this is a story about Jon and Sansa. I don't dislike Daenerys, but if you're a fan of hers, you may not like this story - not because she's an evil vamp or something (I do not intend to show her like that), but simply because this is going to be a story about Jon and Sansa's relationship. I don't usually go on with so many clarifications, but I had people telling me "don't even bother writing if you're going to pair Jon with Sansa" just last morning on another fanfiction website for a story in which J and S aren't even the main characters! I'm still mighty miffed at that. I really don't like getting into all the wank or shipping wars. Hence this long rant (which I'll probably delete when I calm down about this).
> 
> Thank you for reading :)


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